


the plants are terrified and so is crowley

by aellesiym



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Domestic Bliss, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Sharing a Bed, a tiny bit of angst, random tone shift in the middle that gets super domestic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 11:22:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19886776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aellesiym/pseuds/aellesiym
Summary: Aziraphale requisitions Crowley's plants and they move in together. Cue routines and really sappy domestic fluff.





	the plants are terrified and so is crowley

“Angel – are you _encouraging_ them?” asks Crowley, removing his sunglasses with a flick upwards as he sprawls across the sofa.

“It’s the least I can do after you terrorized them, Crowley. Have some heart.” Aziraphale trails his fingers over its leaves, murmuring soothing platitudes at the plant as he glares pointedly at the demon. It perks up warily, then shrinks back as Crowley huffs in annoyance. “Dear, it’s going to be alright – Crowley’s not going to yell anymore, now, is he?” says Aziraphale, squeezing Crowley’s hand.

“No, no I’m not. Never again. Not me, no,” Crowley mutters, looking away. Sunlight slants through the windows of the bookshop, the evening glow bathing the fern in warm radiance. Aziraphale had brought his plants here after complaining about Crowley’s conduct, saying that nothing deserves this trauma.

That same night, he had also insisted that Crowley stay as well.

“Well. See? Nothing to worry about,” says Aziraphale, placing it on the windowsill. “You’re doing stunningly – none of this ‘grow better’ nonsense. That goes for you too, Crowley.”

“Mmrgk.” Crowley reaches for his arm but finds himself swept off the sofa, pulled into a hug. “And you, darling, you do know that you’re magnificent, yes?” Aziraphale whispers, both arms encircling Crowley’s waist as he kisses him lightly.

“S’pose so,” says Crowley, casting his eyes downwards as he winds his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair, trying to ignore the heat creeping up his face. “You do keep saying it.”

“I did have centuries to think it over,” says Aziraphale, gazing at him. “And quite probably should’ve said it sooner. But, you know how it was, going too slow. My mistake.”

“Said what, angel?” asks Crowley, softly; barely audible.

“Oh, now you’re just teasing. I love you, dear.”

“Yeah. Well. So do I.”

* * *

“Why were you such a menace to your plants?” asks Aziraphale, turning to face him.

“Go to sleep, angel,” sighs Crowley, mashing his face into the pillows.

“Really, though,” he continues, “driving them to unearthly perfection and then violently disposing of them when they can’t help but – ah. I see.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know. I needed – I needed to be able create my own paradise. My own little Garden. Playing God. You love them, though, don’t you? The way you talk to them – dripping with it. And all those little touches. Forgiving their blemishes and their fear. Aziraphale,” he says, his golden eyes gaining an inhuman tinge. “Am I right?”

Aziraphale doesn’t answer immediately; instead he draws Crowley towards his chest. Gently strokes his hair, running his fingers through the fiery strands. “Yes, you are.” Crowley inches closer, nestling himself against his angel as he closes his eyes. He hasn’t felt this warm in ages.

And, for the first time in a long, long time, Aziraphale drifts off as well.

* * *

When Aziraphale wakes, Crowley is wound tightly around him in a tangle of limbs, the circulation in his legs having long given up the ghost. He smiles fondly at his sleeping form, relaxing into his embrace and willing the blood to flow again. Crowley shifts up against him, dread flitting across his face as he blearily opens his eyes, blinking away his drowsiness. His gaze lands upon Aziraphale, and the remnants of his fear melt away. “Morning, angel. Thought you’d left,” he says, burrowing deeper under the covers. “You’d think, after weeks now, it’d stop. That I’d know you wouldn’t. And yet–”

“My dear, you don’t have to know,” says Aziraphale, tracing the angles of Crowley’s back. “Just open your eyes, reach out; see for yourself. And maybe one day you’ll believe it – and maybe you won’t – but until then, just … just stay. Open your eyes and … just stay with me, please.”

“I will, angel. All for you.”

* * *

As the months pass, an angel and a demon find themselves increasingly familiar with a particular dance: the swirl of routine, the steps of the other as they move across the room – Crowley’s lazy strides giving way to frantic pacing as the day wears on; Aziraphale padding over the carpet, meticulously deliberate in every movement. Crowley cooks breakfast while Aziraphale makes coffee, each saying that the other does it better and that’s why they don’t do it themselves. Mornings are spent tending the ever-growing garden, ivy and lilies and cacti and so much more, bursting with every shade and colour and tint imaginable (and unimaginable); framing worn and well-loved books stuffed with Aziraphale’s handwriting. The plants are still wary of Crowley, shirking back as he approaches, but less so with each passing day. Aziraphale, however, they adore, reaching out their leaves to him as he walks by, jostling for attention – which he doles out in excess.

Crowley eventually admits to reading, mumbling about how he only lied because he likes the afternoons where Aziraphale reads to him, when the world outside is raucous but muffled, the angel’s voice filling the room, the words individual threads woven together, the sentences forming a tapestry of emotion, paintings embroidered on in careful stitches. These afternoons become steadily more frequent.

When the rosy evening light suffuses through the shop, sometimes Crowley perches on the other end of the sofa and pours them both a glass of wine, sending the dust motes fluttering. It won’t take long before Aziraphale finds Crowley’s arm across his waist and his leg hooked around his thigh, quietly reading over his shoulder. Other times, Aziraphale takes Crowley out for dinner – or rather, Aziraphale indulges in food and Crowley indulges in Aziraphale. It’s London; there will always be a new restaurant to try.

Sometimes, they’ll put on a record and attempt to dance. It never ends well. Sometimes, Aziraphale rediscovers a piece of pop culture from well over ten years ago, and Crowley is both puzzled and exasperated for a week. Most nights, Crowley falls asleep first, his arms coiled around the angel. And most mornings, he wakes with the taste of panic on his tongue and tension the pit of his stomach, the feeling slowly dissipating as he opens his eyes. Some mornings are worse than others, but then again, some are better. Occasionally, Crowley thinks to hunt down a first edition, and Aziraphale decides to knit something. When the seasons turn and the breeze becomes a gale, Crowley walks the streets with a tartan scarf, his hands shoved into patterned mittens. Somehow, he pulls it off.

And on one particular, unremarkable day, a demon asks an angel to marry him. Or maybe the angel asked the demon – neither can remember. There’s a small wedding and afterwards, nothing really changes except for the rings on their fingers: a band with demon horns for the angel, angel wings for the demon. Crowley never does manage to tempt Aziraphale into eating an apple, but he does give him plenty of books – and by extension, knowledge – which is close enough, anyway.

And there will come a day where the plants stop flinching when Crowley approaches, and that will be the day when Crowley wakes without the sharp tang of terror – though it never truly vanishes. And on this day, Aziraphale will see a cottage in South Downs and suggest a move, imagining early morning walks along the beach, the sky painted in scarlet and indigo and every colour in between. Crowley agrees, wanting a change of scenery as London presses forward, building up and up and upon the bones of the past, forcing him onwards.

And just this once, Crowley slows down.


End file.
